Why do you worry
The infinite question with your finite spirit?
- Horace, 'The Odes 2.11" [trans. Eavan Boland]
Pater Potestas
When it has been so long since death has darkened your door, and anything meaningful seems to be eternal like the sky, or lying dormant like the earth, trusted to return in its own time, its own season, do any of us still remember how to mourn?
Should we abolish all bright colour from our dress, take scissors to our hair, play the drum and flute to drive away ghosts, sacrifice animals in their name, go days without food or drink?
Yesterday, I asked you if I should be worried, hoping that you would laugh off my concern with sarcasm. I do not like being made to feel this unbearable emptiness. Tell me I am being foolish and I'll desist. But the pain flared up again, bright as though it never went.
Godric commanded that I live, was all you said. My forehead almost touching yours, I cursed, and thanked him, with the same breath.
Two succulent young humans are sent on their way with disappointment on their faces; I watch from outside your office, and I hold my tongue.
THE END
1 October 2009